


As the World Falls Down

by upper_paleolithic



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: And Everything Nice, Dinner, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fantasy, Lemon, Lemon eventually, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Pumpkin Spice, Smut, Supernatural Elements, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upper_paleolithic/pseuds/upper_paleolithic
Summary: Sarah's life has moved on, her teen years just a dot on the timeline. Jareth is long forgotten - sort of - and she has her whole life ahead of her. When misfortune strikes, will she be able to face it alone? Or will she need help from an other worldly source?
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Kudos: 15





	As the World Falls Down

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my work! I don't typically edit my pieces, so feedback is generally welcome (especially where typos are concerned.) This is my first first-person work in a long while, so please bear with Sarah as we work through this together. I'm always open to ideas, and if you have any requests, I would love to hear about them!
> 
> Notes on the 'canon' magic: I watched the movie several times while writing this, but the soft magic is... still soft. While I hope to expand on this in future works and firm up the edges, at the end of the day, every viewer should come away with their own understanding and interpretation of what they see on the screen. In this work, we see a bit of my own interpretation - so please forgive me if it breaks too greatly with your own.
> 
> Happy reading!

I tried to convince myself it never happened.

I graduated high school, moved seven-hundred miles away, and started a degree in Accounting.

It’s been twelve years and I’m still not over it. The breakdown I had in my junior year of college was proof enough. I switched my major to costume design, extended my school career by another year, and started dying my hair crazy colors. I guess you’re probably wondering what I’m talking about, because I know I would be.

Okay, I hope you’re ready for this.

Twelve years ago I was kidnapped. Well, my little brother was kidnapped. You know how when they say, ‘She was asking for it?’ And you probably roll your eyes (because you’re a decent human being) and you say, ‘No, no one is asking for it.’

I was asking for it. I wished away my brother, and the Goblin King obliged. You can guess what happened next. Would a fourteen year old girl have been able to recover if her parents had returned home and found their baby missing? Of course not. I won my brother back by finding (and fighting) my way through the Goblin King’s maze and storming his castle. I’d like to think that any young girl (I was just a girl) who went through my experience would have done the same, but I’m not certain. And I have questions.

What kind of person (or goblin) kidnaps babies and forces young girls through mazes?  
And what kind of person (or goblin) tries to trap those young girls in secret, hidden fantasies?  
And is that person (or goblin) a person… or goblin?

I don’t always remember Jareth, the Goblin King, as I saw him then. Sometimes I remember his hair shorter or longer, his clothes different, but I always remember his voice: the ever-so-slight rasp, the way he would say ‘bay-bay’ instead of baby, and how he called me ‘Saaaare-uh’. The only time I can remember everything, every slim detail, is when I dream about him.

Don’t get confused. I don’t want to dream about it. We all have our subconscious thoughts, and I bet you don’t control your dreams any better than I control mine. But let’s not talk about my failings. I was telling you about what never happened.

After the maze, the friends I made along the way stayed with me. For a while at least, I had Hoggle, Ludo, Didymus… One by one, they left me as I got older. You can’t exactly bring your three imaginary friends to school. I didn’t always think they were imaginary, but that’s the only explanation. Or so I thought. I’m losing track again!

I had my friends and we had grand times. They helped me perform, read my lines, and they really encouraged me to do whatever would make me happy. But I couldn’t stitch the two halves of my life together. Eventually, I got a boyfriend, friends, and others to confide in. Didymus went first, riding away on his dog, screaming about protecting the realm. Hoggle went next, but only after he’d pilfered my costume jewelry, the sack hanging heavy at his side as he toddled off while muttering under his breath - we both cried, but it was time. Ludo went last, poor Ludo.

He cried the worst of all of them, big blubbering tears that only a beast like Ludo could cry. I was sixteen then, and that’s when I decided that that was over. I quit theater, exchanged my elective courses for language and math classes, and I got to work growing up. The sooner I was independent, making my own way in life, the sooner I’d be out from under my stepmother’s thumb.

We’ll come back to that later, but we should talk about what happened when I was twenty-one, in my junior year of college. You can imagine (I hope) that I thought I had imagined the whole thing. Not only that I had imagined it, but maybe the acid rain really was acid. Maybe I could have just fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing? That’s what I thought until I turned twenty-one and had the worst night of my life.

\--

The worst night of my life started like many other nights for many other people. It was my birthday, I was dressed for a party, and I was going to party. There were five of us: me, Janet and Dan (an item), Letitia, and Marianne. Marianne was my roommate and the rest our friends. You can imagine four girls, chunky heels, spaghetti straps, the works. And Dan, probably wearing jeans and pullover (he’s really not important to the story.) Marianne (never Mary) and I even had those little butterfly clips in our hair, pulling it up and away from our faces in loose, layered strands.

Dan drove us into Chicago from campus and promised not to drink (he didn’t.) We sang through “Become What You Are” by Juliana Hatfield (the whole album), we yelled over whether or not Conan O’brien was attractive, and we argued over whether or not it was okay to order a mimosa anywhere that wasn’t serving brunch (I’m still not sure if there’s a correct answer to that.) I just want to set the scene here - do you get it? It was 1993 and we were going to get black out drunk and hope we woke up in our own beds.

The club was your normal affair, with too many surfaces either painted black or carpeted, chrome stools and countertops, thumbing bass, and not enough light for the bartenders to even read your ID. We got shots, mixed drinks, beers. We danced, we went to the (disgusting) bathroom thirty times, we annoyed the fuck out of Dan. They even sang me happy birthday loud enough that other clubbers joined in.

That’s what I remember, but it’s not all I remember. I don’t remember getting back to the car, Dan herding us like cats (maybe he is important to the story.) I don’t remember Letitia and Janet getting into an argument over who groped who’s boyfriend (Marianne told me later, she had to explain why they weren’t talking to each other.) I don’t remember Marianne telling me to come inside, or when I said, “Hold on, I want to make a wish on a star!”

The next thing I remember is waking up in the Goblin King’s castle, to the Goblin King, in the Goblin King’s bed.

I know, I know. Pump the breaks, you have questions. Can we focus for a moment on me and how I felt?

I was hungover, confused, enchanted, betrayed. My head hurt, my stomach hurt, and the rest of me simply ached. The least I can say is: when I sat up, I was dressed.

Correction: not all of me ached.

Mortified and belittled, you would think things could hardly get worse. But I woke up, I sat up, and the Goblin King laughed at me. I don’t remember making the conscious decision to run, but I remember running through the flowing white curtains draped around the Goblin King’s room. I remember looking back and seeing him stand - the chair was a gold and stone affair, the bed a field of wondrous white linens. I remember stepping through the doorway and falling, falling so far and into such a deep black darkness that I wasn’t sure I’d ever land.

When I did, I was awake in my own room. 

Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a dream. I know because I brought back a souvenir.

Well, I don’t know that I brought it back (yes, we’ve established that there’s a lot I don’t know!) But I know that the crystal ball that lay between my palms when I awoke the next morning was the same crystal ball Jareth threw into the air after me as I fell through the doorway and into the void that brought me back to reality.

The first thing I did was hide the crystal ball. Then I cut off all my hair. When I regretted that, I decided there was no going back. Everything would have to change because I could feel my inner freak awakening. (No, not that kind of freak!) The kind that bites her nails, glances over her shoulder all the time, and can’t sleep because her dreams are infested with goblins. I was never going to make it as an accountant.

(Here, let me file that tax return for you. Oh, what’s that dwarf doing in the corner? Don’t forget, watch for faeries on the way out!)

I know you’re probably thinking that it wasn’t that bad. I woke up the next morning as my whole self, nothing taken from me, and with a gift. But the gift was just as much a curse. I got my chance to inspect the crystal a few days later when Marianne was working a shift. I cradled the thing like a precious object and waited, expecting to see something. Then I rolled it from palm to palm when I became impatient.

When that didn’t work, I tried to mimic the Goblin King’s tricks. I would roll it over the flat of my palm, up over my fingertips - and gravity would always beat me, sending the ball rolling any which way but the way I wanted it to go. I became obsessed. I started carrying it with me in a little velvet bag, always checking the drawstrings. When the girl’s would go out (after Letitia and Janet made up), I would use that as an excuse to stay in.

Marianne stopped wanting to be my roommate when I stopped picking up my clothes off the floor. Or maybe it was when I spilled hair bleach on her favorite chenille sweater, ruining it. So, my second-junior year I got dumped by my roommate, started working to afford my own place, and generally gave up on pretending I wanted to be anything other than a theater geek.

I certainly wanted to be seen for who I was, so I took a leap of faith. I think I’m still falling (always falling.)

\--

That’s what happened twelve years ago, and what happened almost five years ago. What’s happening now? I work day shifts as an executive assistant. It’s part-time, shared with another girl, that way they don’t have to give us benefits. In the evenings, I work at a dinner theater.

I live in an apartment I can barely afford that’s not worth the money I pay for it. There’s a bathroom, a cupboard of a kitchen, and then there’s one room that houses all the same furniture I’ve had since childhood. It’s twisted, how I wake up every morning and teleport to years past, seeing the same orange canopy and orange-skirted vanity. It’s not all the same. There are no toys on the shelves and the few things I have hanging are family portraits or pictures my stepmother (you know, Irene) has sent me of Toby, but I still sit in front of the same mirror I did twelve years ago to practice my lines.

When I’m done with work, or not practicing lines, or not working on costumes in my off time, I’m holding that crystal ball still. I’ve tried every method of bringing it to life, of seeing something within the crystalline depths, but it’s never worked. 

I can wish it to life, tell it that it has no power over me, whisper his name while thinking of his face, but nothing brings it to life. Sometimes I sleep with it. When I feel like I need a break, I just slip it back into its bag and down into the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Sure, I know - but where did things go wrong?

It started when my Mr. Coffee decided he didn’t want to work anymore. While I’m pretty sure it was just steam, my morning went up in smoke. I still got dressed and moved on, stopping by the coffee shop down the street, but it did make me five minutes late to work. Apparently, five minutes is enough time to make or break a man’s opinion of you. 

“You know, kid, we’ve been looking for an excuse to move Sally to full time. As far as executive assistants go, you’re just… average. I think it’s time we cut our losses here. Besides, I just don’t think purple hair suits the company’s image,” Mr. Bowman says, leaning against his desk. I’m standing there awkwardly, purple hair and all. My cardigan-tank combo offers me very little comfort, I wish I was wearing a sweater the size of an elephant.

Then I could just disappear into the wool. I could live in it and be warm. Because even though my body is frozen still, I see flashing images of the tents I’ll be living in when I’m evicted.

“But, Mr. Bowman,” I say, “I need this job. I was just a couple minutes late, I mean… I’d do anything!”

I watch his small shoulders hunch. Everything about Mr. Bowman is small and mouse like, even the way his hair tufts up at the back reminds me of ears. I watch him gesture with his small hands. Even the way he makes us call him ‘Mr. Bowman’ instead of David is small.

“Well, I suppose, if you could do something for me, I could probably transfer you to a different department. Not mail, we’re still schmoozing over the last sexual harassment case there…,” he says, looking around as though he expects to find a camera crew right behind him. “Look, Sarah, there’s not much I can do here. But maybe if you let me take you on date…”

He trails off, probably to read my reaction. It’s not good. Before I was mortified, but now? I’m angry.

“You can shove that date up your ass, David! Do you not hear yourself?” I want to shout. I don’t.

Instead, I say, “You know I can’t do that, I’m in a relationship! And you’re married. I’ll just… I’ll just pack up my things and go.”

The words are meant to come out strong, authoritative, but I just sound dejected to my own ears. He nods and opens his mouth, but I refuse to stand still long enough to hear what he has to say. I don’t have much here, so it doesn’t take long to get everything in a banker’s box and out the door.

By the time I get home, my coffee is cold and I haven’t even had a chance to drink most of it.

So, like any girl looking for comfort, I call my boyfriend. Emille is everything I could want. He’s an actor who frequently works at Victory Gardens, he has plans for Broadway (and I think he’ll achieve them), and even though he’s a bit aloof, he’s extraordinarily sweet.

Emille picks up on the first ring, and I’m glad he’s not at rehearsal. His rich baritone fills me with the calm, even though he only answers with a, “Hello?”

“Hey, babe, I have like, the most horrible story to tell you,” I say, my voice so strained I practically squeak.

“Oh, hey, Sarah. Yeah, I was just about to call you… Actually…,” he says. Sure, that’s hesitation I hear, but I pretend not to hear it.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe my day. Anyway, you go first, I don’t want to get distracted.”

“Yeah, well, you know, I flew out to New York last week to audition for Cats, and I just got some really great news,” he says, his voice too light for the implication.

“Oh, really?” I say. My voice sounds falsely cheery, but I hope the phone covers it up - this is big news. I pull the cord of the phone with me through the kitchen and begin searching for my emergency stash of chocolate.

“A’ight, yeah, so I’m going to be closing… the doors on my life here in Chicago. You know, if I come back I’ll hit you up, but like… New York!” he says, and I know what he’s saying. But I’m not going to let him get away without really saying it. I tug on a bag of chocolate chips, it sends a couple boxes of cereal crashing down over me.

“Hey, you okay?” I hear him say. I assume he’s asking after the crashing sounds and not my emotional well being.

“Yeah, you know, I’m fine. Did you want me to come visit you in New York?” I ask. My hands are wrestling with the bag, crinkling it much too loudly. I speak over it anyway. “You know what, no. I’m breaking up with you. Enjoy New York.”

It feels good to take back the control. I feel adrenaline coursing through me and I run with it. I hear him begin to apologize, but I slam the phone back down on the receiver. Chocolate isn’t going to do the trick anymore. I’m back in the cabinets again, even as tears begin to well up in my eyes, and I’m climbing on the counter to reach the back of a shelf. My hands come back with a slightly dusty bottle of wine. It’s about that time I realize I don’t have a wine opener.

\--

Did you know that it really only takes persistence to open a bottle of wine? Persistence and apathy (for when you swallow the little pieces of cork too big to pick out.) I don’t remember buying this bottle of wine, maybe Emille brought it over. My bed’s not big enough for two, it would have been before we started sleeping together. I think about his apartment and I cry a little more - it was one of those cool industrial renovations, and even if he had a roommate, it was just a nice place to spend time.

He’s called a couple more times. At least, I assume it was him calling. I can’t afford an answering machine and I’m too steeped in misery to pick it up. The tiny TV my dad and stepmother got me when I headed off to college is playing blearily in the corner, but I’m not listening. I’m tipsy on wine, sick on chocolate, and my stomach hurts from crying.

When I’m not busy emptying the bag of chocolate chips or sipping wine from a coffee mug, I pass the crystal ball between my hands. It glints in the afternoon light that streams in from my only window. That’s when the mistake happens, that’s when I make my mistake.

Twelve years ago, I said, “I wish the goblins would take you away. Right now.”

Five years ago, I assume I said, “I wish the goblins would take me away. Right now.”

This time it’s not much different, I say, “I wish the goblins would take me to him. Right now.”

I don’t even mention Jareth’s name. I don’t even know if it will work in the afternoon. Those other times it was dark outside, late enough for the owls and bats and other night things to be out.

\-- 

It’s getting dark out. At least I’ve had the time to tell you this. I know you’re just a crystal ball, and you’re probably not even listening, but this is always how it’s been.

\--

It’s almost midnight. We watched that movie, the one about the girl and her birthday. Everyone forgets about it. She wears this dress, it’s like a pink cake. I just want to eat heaps of pink frosting. I think I’m falling asleep. I’m not even tipsy or anything, I couldn’t drink anymore. I’m just tired.

\--

It’s two now, maybe I’m safe. What kind of Goblin King sneaks into unsuspecting women’s rooms at two in the morning? Maybe Jareth does. I think I hear an owl outside. Maybe it’s the TV, I don’t think owls can hoot lullabies.

\--

When I wake up the next time, I know it’s morning. I pull my quilt up over us, shielding us from the light. I don’t need to get up, I was fired. My next shift at the theater isn’t until Thursday. I tell us, “Two more days of freedom.”

I don’t open my eyes when I stretch. I keep them shut tight and raise my arms over my head. The blanket falls down around my armpits and I don’t mind. My back meets the soft sheets as I roll and I think I could maybe fall back asleep. That’s about the time I feel the arm tighten around my waist. I scream. There’s nothing but the feeling of being trapped, the scream in my throat, and the thrash of my body.

“Shh, Saaar-uh,” I hear. I thrash harder. His arms are an inescapable bound. I decide I must be dreaming, a nightmare. There’s no way this is happening.

You know I haven’t been totally honest with you, not recently. A long time ago I told you that maybe the Goblin King wasn’t so bad. Maybe his tights, his boots, the costume - maybe underneath all that was a man worth my time, worth my desire. I could say those things because, at the time, I didn’t think I’d ever have to confront those feelings. There’s a whole lot of confrontation happening. His body confronting my body. I’m not ready.

Finally, I stop screaming. I’m panting from the effort, it’s hard to fight. Eventually, I work up the nerve - not to look at him, but to really speak my mind. I’m not half as fierce as I used to be. 

“I’m not ready.”

There, it works. His arm releases me and I shoot forward. I can at least recognize I’m dressed, still in the matching pajama set Irene got for me last Christmas. The white gauzy curtains are the same, they move in and out of the room, but never all at once or in the same direction. I see the room better this time, it helps that I’m avoiding noticing him. Just like last time, he is quick to let me adjust, slow to move. He likes to be confronted.

The room is inset in stone, probably up in one of his towers. Past the veil of fabric, I can look out and see the maze. Right where I last left, the door is still there. When I turn, I see the chair with its odd curves and stone braces, all round and draped with scraps of burgundy fabric. This time, I notice a rug beneath my bare feet. It’s red shag reminds me of Ludo and I shiver. My slow revolution brings me back to him, to see him sprawled over the bedsheets like some pale playboy. He’s dressed, but I know he’s pale because the deep-v of his shirt remains - just like all those years ago.

His hair is different, but still looks a bit relentlessly teased. Instead of the scatter-shot mullet, it hangs in heavier locks with less height. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume he just woke up, but I’m guessing this is a cultivated look. It’s not tolerable how attractive his wide, slightly thin-lipped mouth is. I remember watching those lips the time before last, seeing them pull flat and pucker as he spoke.

Finally, I meet his eyes. Have you ever noticed how one eye appears different than the other? I haven’t exactly had the chance to ask about it, but one eye looks darker. He stares back, blond and handsome and irritating.

“I didn’t mean it,” I blurt out, hands wringing at the bottom of my pajama shirt. He doesn’t reply yet, he’s waiting to pounce. “I mean, to come here. I didn’t mean to say, you know, what I said.”

“Hah, like you have to say anything. You want to be here, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” he says, and I hate that his body can look so relaxed while his voice carries so much energy. “Come back to bed, won’t you?”  
Jareth’s elongated vowels, oddly bright voice despite it’s depth, it’s all as I remember it. The contrast is dimorphic, like a spell that strokes me head-to-toe with every syllable. It’s difficult to ignore, but I don’t want to fall thrall to him once more.

“No, I need to go back. I need you to return me, you know, to the real world,” I argue. I’m already backing away toward the door, but he doesn’t seem alarmed.

“You can only go the way you came, Saaar-uh, and you didn’t come that way. Stay with me, I have what your heart desires, your wish. Just come lay down and relax,” he says, his voice soothing more than just my soul. I feel my arms fold over my chest, like an indignant child. He’s already smiling as though he’s won.

“I can’t stay here, I have to go back! I’ve got, you know, a life! I have to go to work,” I say. The words come to me easily at first, and I begin to recite, “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered…”

That causes quite the stir. I’m not sure how he does it, but with barely a shove, he’s leapt from the bed. Now I see he’s barefoot, tights trim and visible from hip to ankle. His shirt is loose without a vest over it, an ethereal shroud over his lean form. I think at first he’s just going to stand there, but he comes to me and I’m too shocked to push him away. First one hand takes my hip, then the other threads through the hair at the base of my skull. My arms fall aside, but I do not dare touch him.

“No, Sar-uh, forget that old thing. You called me for a reason, dearest. Let me be your slave, a slave to your desire,” he says. His breath brushes against my face, the scent not unpleasant - like cinnamon. I close my eyes. It’s a mistake.

When he pulls me to him, I don’t open them. I stand there, stricken immobile, as his lips descend over mine. The thrum of my heart’s chord, the trill of my soul - everything is singing. He doesn’t taste like cinnamon, and I know this, because his tongue parts my helpless lips. Cloves, nutmeg, the warmest of seasonings, he tastes like autumn. It’s very hard to want to not want whatever this is. I shift nervously, feeling the pangs of desire prickle my skin.

Suddenly, the air is too cool. Jareth’s body is the only source of warmth and I press myself into it. Have these pajamas always felt so thin? It hardly matters, because his arms tighten around me. My lungs beg for air, but his mouth is demanding and unwavering. I have to breathe through my nose - I have to breathe!

Finally, I drop back to my heels, unaware they’d even left the ground. He soothes me, cradles me against him, and I am left overwhelmed and enchanted. The thought is striking enough that I look to him, watch him watching me, and I find my voice again.

“How do I know that you’re not… tricking me? How do I know this is how I’m supposed to feel?” I ask. It’s absurd for me to ask as we’re pressed together, as I feel the heat of him against me, but the alternative doesn’t bear consideration. 

“How you turn my world, you precious thing,” he says, and I recall these words. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place around me, drawing a conclusion I’ve never dared to put words to.

“You mean it, don’t you? But I don’t understand, why me?”

“I believe in you, you have the power. Just as you believe in me. There is nothing else but you, the power within you, and my desire to make your dreams come true,” he says, voice lilting. The words are a serenade and I fall for it. This time, there’s nothing at stake. There’s nothing to stop me.

I kiss him this time, like I’ve always wanted to. I’m glad, happy it’s taken this long to reach this conclusion. (Can you imagine if a presumably immortal being had tried to seduce a fourteen year old? He did ask me to stay, all that time ago, but it was just an illusion. Besides, I think I was supposed to win then.)

I kiss him and I taste all the warm flavors of him, joyfully pushing my tongue into his mouth. Kissing him is like ambrosia, everything I could need and want. There’s impatience in the way he presses back against me, the way his hands seek and pull at my clothing. It’s almost too much to stand, knowing that we stand here together in just the heat of the moment. He pulls away and I voice my displeasure with a groan.

“Hush now, this is not all I have to offer. Come, lay with me…,” he says, trailing off as though it’s a question. It really isn’t, and I am quick to comply. My hands find their way to his arms and we guide each other in stumbling steps, falling over one another until we land tangled over the stark white linens.

We turn and twist, separate and return, but if this is a wrestling match, I think he would win. I am surprised when he doesn’t move over me, instead laying beside me and pulling me over him. His arm is around me, my head on his shoulder. I wonder about my own desire, the need I feel deep in my belly. If he’s not kissing me, fondling me while he has the opportunity, did I misunderstand?

Jareth’s lips fall to the crown of my head, a gentle kiss. I’m afraid to break the sudden silence once more, but there’s really nothing for it.

“You’re not going to… We’re not going to…?” but I’ve grown timid again, confused and dumbfounded by this man (or goblin? I hope he’s a man. A human.)

“No, dearest, how uncouth. Not yet, at any rate,” he replies, fingers loosely combing through my hair. I hide my disappointment by closing my eyes. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because much later - I wake up.  
\--

When I wake up, I’m warm and so comfortable I almost drift off again. The light is dim, but there are arms holding me and the rich scent of spice in the air. Ultimately, it’s the crackle of fire that alarms me into wakefulness. I sit up, avoid looking at Jareth, and take stock.

Braziers of flame are scattered through the chamber. The long curtains are mercifully still and I’m pleased enough with my surroundings. Jareth stirs, and I can’t pretend we aren’t here together. Looking at him, really taking in that he’s here and I’m here, and we are both here together, is a whole new kind of waking up.

Electricity skitters over my skin, but I know it’s my awareness of him that causes the sensation. He shakes his head when I open my mouth to speak, joining me semi-upright to cup my cheek with his hand and guide me into a kiss. We’re smiling, I feel it on his lips as our mouths move in tandem. We separate and I’m left starving, ravenous for me. I am almost certain he can sense my moods, that he has some otherworldly knowledge of me. He doesn’t have to speak to remind me.

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. I move the stars for no one,” I remember, the words of the past crossing my lips even as I’ve only just recalled them.

“Yes, you precious thing, it’s all for you. All this and more. Will you join me this evening, in the walled garden, my love?” he says, and when he asks, I know there’s no denying him. (Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.)

“What will I wear? And my hair? I’m sure it’s a mess,” I say, surprised at how insecure I suddenly sound. I let it slide, resting against him while he answers.

“You don’t think I can provide for you? That’s just like you! Always underestimating me. What would you like to wear, dream of my dreams? Should I bathe you in starlight? I’ll spin you a coat of spider’s silk, a crown of faerie wings,” he cajoles. His hands have found their way to my ribs, he tickles, I scream.

The whole world flashes around me. His arms are the only thing that keep me from falling, holding me up and tight against him. When the world is finished spinning and I can finally catch my breath, I find myself free. His hands hold mine, but he’s already stepped away. We’re no longer in his chamber, but now in the walled garden as he suggested. Not too far away, I hear a drumbeat - we must be near the forest and the swamp. I shiver, reminded of the fireys.

The goblin king is a quick distraction. He remains mostly relaxed, his shirt still open and gray tights still snug across his thighs. In the whirlwind, black boots and a flowing cape of sheer gray silk have appeared. The ragged edges drag across the ground as he moves, which makes me wonder who does his laundry. I don’t even know if he eats, but I do and the sudden return of my hunger anchors me in a bit of reality.  
“Jareth, how am I to stay here? This place is dangerous for me, don’t you know that?” I say, looking around in bewilderment. The walled garden is like nothing I’ve seen before. There’s a little babbling brook that comes down into a pond covered in lily pads and flowers. Little lights hang all around us, simply floating in the air. Fruit trees grow, and in their bowers, there are birds. The birds have human faces, but they don’t alarm me. This is the Goblin King’s world after all.

“Sarah, you can’t imagine I’d let harm befall you. Even before, did I not leave you unscathed? I am the king, and you can be my queen,” he says. (Queen!) With a sweeping gesture, he calls my attention back to my surroundings. The flowering shrubs are lovely, whatever they are, and those leggy pink flowers on stalks are quite alluring.

Just looking at the flowers, the gossamer petals, makes me want to be bathed in warm pink light. In quiet astonishment, I realize I am. The pajamas are gone, replaced by a shimmering web of fabric that stretches over my body from breast to hip before falling in long swathes to the ground. It isn’t quite opaque, but the way it glows makes me feel light and beautiful.

“All this and more, suitable only for you, who has the power. Over me,” he continues. I’m confused, still quite bewitched with this new found information - I’m powerful?

“You don’t mean for me to stay here forever, do you? And if I’m so powerful, can’t I just have it all myself?” I ask. The questions sound pedantic, but I’d rather ask about the things within my control.

“Dream of my dreams, you still don’t believe in me?” he scoffs. “The goblins believe, and therefore I’m their king! If you were to believe, I’d certainly still be king. But I believe in you, you precious thing, and that’s why you are my queen.”

I want to scream. I’m conflicted and I’m sure he can tell because the words tumbling from my mouth don’t all add up. One after another, they come as, “Queen, like marriage? To a king? Because we all believe? But what does it mean?”

Wouldn’t you know, he laughs? My cheeks burn with the embarrassment, the heat of the moment, and everything else. Again, his rich voice wraps me up like a comforting swaddle, and he says, “Queen, whatever it means, whatever you want it to be. But you, here with me.”

The first chords I hear don’t really make it into my conscious thought, but I begin to hear the swell of music all around me. The birds, with their human faces, are singing. Each bird sounds like a different instrument and I watch their mouths open with clear fascination. Jareth strikes in that moment, bundling me back up against him so we can sway and move with the rhythm.

“I’ll paint you mornings of gold, I’ll spin you Valentine evenings, though we’re strangers ‘til now, we’re choosing a path,” he says. The words are not quite sung, but they still move with the music.

“Did you mean that? I mean, when I was fourteen? I was just a girl, then,” I say, doing my best not to sound defensive.

“Your heart called and I answered, but no. You didn’t really want to stay then, did you? It isn’t that I let you go, dearest. There is no ruling that heart of yours,” he says. It is answer enough, but I know that this time, I do want to stay. That means that he knows it, too.

“We don’t have to do this again. I’m an adult,” I say, startled by my lack of tact. “I mean, obviously I’m an adult, but I know how to ask for what I want now. I want to stay with you, and to be with you.”

I’m afraid I’ll have to explain further, that I’ll have to spell everything out, but I should have known better. Jareth steps away, still moving in time. I can’t tell if the smile on his face is meant to be cruel, but the low light adds extra shadows in unexpected places. His grasp slides over my arm until our hands meet and he guides me through the garden, up a little white path made of stone, and on to a terrace.

A table is set with all the finest things. Crystalline plates and goblets, little gold cutlery. Red liquid, wine I assume, and a plate holding what I can only hope is a fine cut of beef with some vegetables. In the middle of the table, a silver cloche sits and I dare not disturb it. When he tells me to eat, I do so without need for further encouragement. (It does taste like beef, I hope it really is just beef.)

He eats in small dainty bites, but more than that, he watches me. In the moments I feel self conscious, I drink the wine and hide under the crystal rim. It never needs to be filled a second time, but it also never runs out. I wonder if I have magic, but I store that thought away from later. When my plate is cleared, it disappears. All that’s left is the silver dome, and I watch him rest his hand over the top. I think he’s teasing me, blocking me from opening it myself. My brown eyes meet his blue and we both stare, slow smiles easing up the corners of our lips.

“Should I call you Jareth? Goblin King?,” I say at last. I won’t lie, I bat my lashes. He seems to take it all in stride, unperturbed by nearly anything I do.

“Whatever you so desire,” he replies as his hand tugs gently on the lid of the cloche. And suddenly, there are butterflies. The butterflies surround me in a kaleidoscope of colors, their wings batting my face and arms lightly as they spiral around me. I can’t see him anymore, the effusion of butterflies is so great and overwhelming. At last, as I raise my arms to shoo them away, they part. He’s no longer across from me.

Instead, his hands are taking my hands from behind. He bows over me, pressing his cheek to my cheek before turning his head to kiss, delicately, my cheekbone. I feel something against my chest, and half expecting it to be more butterflies, I am surprised to find a silver pendant with a massive yellow gem in the center of it. The gem is smooth and shiny, a circle, and it’s surrounded by little silver triangles with little spiral tops. I twist in my chair, pulling my hand free to raise it to his chest. Dangling there from his neck is a silver pendant, a downward facing crescent.

We both swallow - odd, isn’t that? He comes to kneel before me, arms always bent toward me like he’s ready to snatch me up, or to shield me from danger. If I didn’t feel like I was dreaming before, I do now.

“Dream of my dreams,” he says, “Do you see? I’ll place the moon within your heart.”

He is the moon, and I’m his sun, and he shines when I shine. At last understanding, at least in part, I collapse against him. I don’t care that the chair topples over or that we topple over, because I’m in his arms and we are flying.

I hope to know how to wield this magic one day. I want him to know, and to feel, how he makes me feel.

\--

We tumble through space. You know, not literal outer space, but the space we occupy. I’m not sure where that is, but we tumble and the world flashes by. I think I should be sick to my stomach, but all I feel is joy. Joy is in his face, too, his expression pure happiness. I’m not sure how we come to land back on the bed, but I’m also not certain it matters.

The landing takes my breath away, and I can’t get it back because he’s kissing me again. I suck in air through my nose, I fill my lungs to bursting. At last, I break away to exhale. We’re laughing, but I’m not sure at what. His fingers tickle my sides and I’m happy, writhing in the nervous sensations. When he stops tickling me, when his hands come to cup my hips and draw me up under him, fire spreads.

The warmth lights me up from my core outward, filling every space. Even between my toes and to their tips, I feel like a light bulb, warm and electric. The gossamer shroud I wear tears itself away from me in the gusto of his touch, seeming to crumble at his touch. It leaves behind trails of glitter, and while I’m afraid it will be like sand, I feel only feather light brushes. In fact, the glittery trails left behind are in their own way arousing. I feel like a confection, the finest petit four, ready to be devoured.

Between my hair in my face, his hair hanging over his shoulders, I have little sight. His eyes keep meeting mine, and I feel him, but I want to see him. 

I feel him move away and I panic, wondering if I’ve done something wrong. The sudden freedom of movement allows me to push my hair away from my face, to see him standing there at the end of the bed, simply smoldering. I feel the worry fade and the heat within me grow as he says, “I’m not going anywhere, at least… Not anywhere you don’t want me to.”

Then, his long fingers close over the shoulders of his shirt. You would think, maybe expect, him to just pull it off over his head. But the Goblin King must undress with more flare than I’ve ever seen before (including the stripper from Janet’s bachelorette party.) Jareth stares at me as his hips move and he thrusts forward. I can’t help but laugh, even if I am around and he is arousing, I feel more relaxed as he makes the fool of himself. This continues for several moments too long before he uses a fluid motion to turn himself around.

Despite the continued strip tease, my laughter fades as he raises the shirt up over his back, then over his head. He holds it aside like a pom-pom, but my eyes are trained on his lean form, the way his skin ripples as he flexes. I bite my lip, surprised at just how attractive he is. With his shirt out of the way, I see a thin belt keeps his tights in place - he casts the shirt aside to pull at the buckle, still turned away. It’s only when he draws the belt away that he turns his head, looks over his shoulder at me. His smile is alarming, tilted, and many years ago, I would have feared it.

Now I gain pleasure from his pleasure, and I do know he is enjoying me here. The feeling settles into my bones like peace, making me relax and shift slightly over the bed. Any last tatters of the pink garment fade into pixie dust as I brush them away and spread my legs. My eyes remain trained on him as he turns and sees me, drinks in my prone and exposed form. I can’t describe the sound he makes, but it makes me want to weep with pleasure.

Even the tension as he raises one boot at a time to the footboard, slowly undoing the laces down the back, is enough to send another spear of desire through my body. Watching his deft fingers play with the cords is like watching a master at task. The mischievous gleam in his eye, watching his gaze track over my body, I’ve never felt such confliction - to hide or bare all? But I’ve made my choice.

He shimmies, thumbs in the top of his pants, and then he shimmies lower. If you thought he’d bare all this easily, you’d be wrong. The contraption he wears beneath those pants is the most complex undergarment I’ve ever seen, made of I can only guess is extremely fine leather. The front is cup-like, and the whole thing reminds me of a jock strap, black leather running over his hips and around his buttocks. I’m impressed and so distracted I’ve hardly noticed my fingers delving into my cleft. I moan and he shivers.

I open my mouth to speak, to order him, to ask for him - literally anything, as long as he comes to me and joins me in bliss. I don’t have to speak, he already knows my heart’s every desire. Instead, I open my mouth and gasp as my fingers stroke up another rise in the crescendo and he is there, coming over me to kiss me once more. His mouth moves over mine as his hand slides down my leg. I can tell he is being patient, even when he slides my hand away to replace it with his own. How long have we been waiting for this?

I don’t want to answer, so I’m not going to. Those fingers are too distracting anyway, his thumb so eager to circle my clitoris while two fingers dip lower, feeling the warmth and wetness of my flesh. There must be magic involved because it feels like only moments until I am floating

Seeing stars

Being cradled in a cloud made of glittering pixie dust

Shattering into a thousand pieces, each finer than the last, and every single one singing the crystalline song of ecstasy.

My eyes closed at some point, maybe my breathing stopped. All I can taste is apple cider, cinnamon. All I can smell is baking bread, sweetness, and cloves. I divine that he is still over me, about to be a part of me, and my eyes snap open because I don’t want to miss what comes next. The Goblin King is here, naked, his shaft pressed to my belly. I have to pull away to break our kiss, to see him - every inch that’s visible. I am pleased, and my pleasure brings his pleasure.

Jareth uses his hand, the one that just so deftly claimed me, to position himself at my entrance. I am happy to watch, happy to tilt my hips and bring my knees up high to ease his way. Even so, the tease of his manhood against my sensitive core is almost too much to bear. I think there must be magic here, but I will chide him about that later. Important things are happening as his hips lower, as the head of his shaft presses persistently into me.

We both sigh happily, together, as our pleasure mingles between us. He even laughs, so giddy is he, but still patient. I lift my hips, pressing him further, and he obliges. Then we glide from stroke to stroke. His face is against my face and I feel his breath in my hair. I close my eyes, even as I draw his hair away from my face and hold it loosely. I feel him kiss my palm as my hands rests on his shoulder. The other hand grips the linens, I fear I’ll lose reality if I don’t.

The grip doesn’t matter because we are both masterful lovers. He moves his hips in intriguing motions, angling himself to slide against my inner walls in ways I didn’t know possible. I tighten, I flex, I writhe - and we both pant between our gasps and moans. I think this will be it, that this will be all, but we’ve always underestimated each other.

In a half rise, his body still rocking against mine, his length moving within me, I see his face. He hovers above like an angel, bringing me pleasure until we are both crying out. Each ‘Saaar-uh!’ brings me greater joy, and I decide not to chide him about the magic after all. That’s the only explanation for the rising ecstasy I feel, the tidal wave of pleasure that tugs me out of my body and brings me once more to the same altitude as the stars. We rise above the world together, float among the lights of the universe together, and we electrify each other with our mutual pleasure. I know he’s picked up speed, feel the gentle ache as my joints are pressed beyond their usual limits.

It’s all worth it for the world shattering ending. Our mouths meet, and there is no end to this autumn. This time, I feel the crinkle of dry leaves, a cool breeze, the warmth of the diminishing sun. This embrace is everything. I smell the smoke of burning leaves, feel the dryness of the air, and I am swept along a current of maple tidings.

There is no simple return this time and I wonder at the significance of our coupling. I drift with him, and together, it’s like we rediscover each of our senses turn-by-turn. First, I hear his quick breathing and my racing heartbeat. Then, I feel the press of his body over mine, tingling where our skin makes contact (almost everywhere!) I smell our sweat, but the odor is strange, not just salty but smokey. Next comes taste, the lingering sweetness of his kisses enough to make me lick my lips seeking more of it.

When I look up at the plaster ceiling and see the flickering firelight from the brazier, I know I’m finally home. As much as Jareth is my home, this place belongs to the two of us. I feel its power thrum through my veins and it’s like one more sense, a new plane has opened up within me. Jareth moves, and though we part, the feeling remains with me. Our lips meet, our tongues push and stroke, and for a time, all I know is him for a while longer.

\--

Sleep is the only time we’re apart, but it isn’t like we’re not physically sleeping next to each other. When I’m asleep, my mind wanders farther and farther away. Sometimes I see our kingdom beneath us, my subconscious exploring all the nooks and crannies I never knew. Sometimes I see, well, Earth as I knew it. Fragments of my past life come and go through my dreams.

I don’t know how long we’ve been together. Night and day pass, but our joy is endless. It doesn’t matter if we walk the maze or meet with our people, we are together always. Jareth worries that they won’t fear him anymore if they see how soft he is with me, but I am a ruler in my own right.

I should mention that Hoggle is now my royal advisor. It’s mostly just a title for him to throw around, but I gave him a staff with a shiny new gem and he’s allowed to tell the others what to do. It gives him a sense of importance. We spend time together, laughing and romping. I like the way Jareth watches, even when he frowns at our bad taste in jokes, I know what makes me happy makes him happy.

Ludo is here, but he spends most of his time in the walled garden. He likes the birds and the fruit. I am happy he is happy, and that makes us all happy.

Oh, what of Didymus? You, the crystal ball? There’s much more to tell you, but you’ll have to wait. The Goblin King calls, and I wouldn’t be much of a Queen if I ignored him, would I? Until next time, friend. Goodbye!


End file.
